


quite a show

by sludgeraptor



Category: Dangan Ronpa
Genre: Emetophobia, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Parental Abuse, parental neglect, to put it another way: this fic contains fukawa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 08:34:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4428602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sludgeraptor/pseuds/sludgeraptor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>touko fukawa was never okay, not once in her life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	quite a show

**Author's Note:**

> take note that this DOES contain descriptions of parental abuse, both physical and emotional (specifically neglect). i wasn't sure how to classify that and the vomit scene, so i just went with not putting warnings.

It started with blackouts. Inexplicable time loss. You didn’t think much of it. You didn’t think much of anything but your own misery, and that’s how it’d always been. You were just a lonely kid, an angry kid, a _weird_ kid.

No one talked to you, and that was fine. You didn’t think much of it, because you didn’t think much of anything but yourself. Your depression, your isolation. People called you mean, and you didn’t deny it. You were nasty, and you knew it - nasty, disgusting, _trash_.

So blackouts and time loss seemed fine in the long run - just another piece of the unfortunate person that was Touko Fukawa. Nobody cared about you, anyway.

***

_hey gloomy! (haha, i can already tell that’s your attitude just from your MISERABLE writing ;P :P :X )_

_i guess i’m in your body, huh? huh? you didn’t notice, right? i’m a smooth criminal, right?_

_heehee, and i see you trying to heal those scars! nice try, sis! i won’t let you do it so easily._

_anyway, it’s good that that nuisance of a boy is gone now, right? ohh, he was so fun to kill! i swear i could feel the heat between my thighs when i_

You shuddered, stopped reading.

“ _Drivel_ ,” you hissed, crushing it up in one hand and shuddering. “U-Utter u-useless _drivel_ , t-totally irredeemable - m-my own handwriting, unbelievable - p-probably that c- _cow_ he wants me to c-call a mother, m-messing with me again -”

You heard her (or perhaps the other one’s) moan from upstairs, from your parent’s bedroom, a disgusting wasteland of filth that they didn’t even bother trying to hide from you. Another moan. A bed creak. You hissed to yourself, bit your thumb as hard as you possibly could without drawing blood.

“D-D- _Drivel_ ,” you repeated, though you weren’t sure to what.

If only by force, you didn’t think much of it.

***

When you heard about Genocider Syo, you ignored it. Pushed the similarities out of your mind and tried to ignore the pairs of scissors you’d been finding hooked into your underwear, held there by the impromptu strap, always shiny and clean, glimmering in the light and spotless except for a thin line of dried blood brown on the sharp side, which you knew came from the new, straight-edge gash in your thigh, short and in even strokes -

\- was it a countdown, you wondered? Or maybe -

You ignored it. You went back to working on homework.

***

“Hey, gloomy,” your father said, wrinkling his nose with obvious distaste at you when you opened the door. “We’re going out tonight.”

“U-us?”

“Your mothers and I.” He says this like it should be obvious, and you scowl. There is no emotion with him, only a cold detestation of the being he brought into the world.

“S-so _what_?”

“So make your own food. Got it?” He enunciated the last two words like you were thick-skulled enough to not understand that simple instruction, and you practically snarl at him.

“I-Is there a-anything to even _e-eat_ \- h-hey! You can’t just l-leave - if I don’t have anything to e-eat, I’ll _s-starve_ -”

It was too late. He was ignoring you. You huffed, bit your thumb, turned away and scrambled to your room, feet _thunkthunkthunk_ ing against the hardwood floor as you ran. You kicked the door shut behind you, ripped an old, worn doll off your dresser in frustration and popped off its head, chucking it at the wall. (You hadn’t had any new possessions not to do with school in years, so hurting one of your childhood playmates was satisfying and devastating at the same time.)

“Th-those _ingrates_ , those _h-heathens_ , those g-g- _goddamn_ -”

You stopped abruptly when you stepped on something fleshy, something _wet_. You froze.

“Th-those - those -”

You looked down, saw a cut off _tongue_ , blood pooled beneath it like - like you didn’t know what, but something _sick_ and _wrong_ \- a note attached - but it was too late, you were stumbling backwards, falling unconscious.

Your last image was your ceiling, beat up and cracked, water-stained and practically useless at its job.

(You felt a lot like that ceiling, sometimes.)

***

You woke up in the parking lot of the local mall - or, more accurately, the unkempt shrubbery of the parking lot of the local mall.

You felt like you’d just been drinking all night - and you’d never drunk in your life, not once. (Real writers depended on their feelings, not that disgusting _filth_.) It was dark. The moon was invisible - provided it was even nighttime.

You pushed yourself to your feet with a grunt, trembled at the newfound ache in your leg. It felt sticky, wet on the thigh, almost _crusty_.

You didn’t have to check to know what had happened - another mark. But you did notice a new feeling - like something wrapped around your leg. You hesitated, considered the consequences of your actions, before you carefully, gently rolled up your skirt and examined the black band there. It held a pair of scissors, which, once removed, were shiny even in the dim light, perfectly clean except (you were sure, without even opening them) a thin brown line of dried blood on the sharp edge.

You doubled over and vomited, emptying your stomach of what little had been in there. You shuddered, wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, and immediately vomited again, this time only blood and bile and acid.

_It’s disgusting_ , you thought, your vision going in and out of focus and tears of bitter pain stinging your eyes. You forced yourself to examine the mess you’d made, a habit formed of years of being made to do so, and froze when you saw a chewed up wad of something in the midst of the mess.

It looks bloody, unlike the other scarce remnants of food, and dizziness washed over you - haven’t you seen something like this before?

“Oh God,” you whispered, starting to shake. You grabbed your braids, tugged, the pain bringing you some measure of reality. “T-t-the _tongue_.”

You couldn’t push it out of your mind anymore.

***

She left notes for you a lot. You ignored them just as often.

The only one you’d ever completely read was the one the day after the mall incident - it was just as incoherent and useless as all of her other notes, of course, but you read it because you didn’t know what else to do.

_hiya, touko-chan!_

_LOL, you were so shocked by the tongue you passed out? awwww, cute. you’re a real virgin, aren’t you? aaaaaaren’t you?_

_just kidding, of course you are! LMAO!!! (that means laughing my ass off, since i doubt someone as lame as you knows it. LOL means laughing out loud! because i am! LOL LOL LOL LOL) you’re so lame, you couldn’t be lamer if you were dead. but hey, you’re not, so we may as well make the most of being trapped in this body together, riiiiiiiiight?_

_here’s the thing; i have a looooooong list of beautiful boys to kill, all of which come from your mind. and you seem the type to lock yourself away in your room, uncaring about the world around you except your bodice rippers. man, what a boring life! anyway, i need you to go out sometimes, right? i can’t just choose them all by myself, y’know! i’m just trying to watch out for us - for number one!_

_if you want, i can even write about it afterwards. you’d like that, right? to hear about how they squealed like little pigs when i stabbed their hands and how their blood splattered so beautifully, so poetically - LOL! XD just kidding, you’d probably find that gross or something. (hint: it’s actually hot.)_

_love,_

_your body mate!_

_(P.S., the newspapers have been calling me GENOCIDER SYO!!!! i like it!!!!!!!!!!!! call me syo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i don’t want to use your boring ass name >:( )_

You burned the letter and flushed the ashes down the toilet.

***

“I-I’m h-home.”

No one looked up as you entered. One of your mothers made a bored grunting noise at you without even turning from the TV, and you scowled.

“You c-could at least _p-pretend_ to care about me,” you snapped, kicking off your shoes and chewing on your thumb.

The response to that was a gaping silence, punctuated with the buildup to a joke on the shitty sitcom they were watching.

“D-do I have to make dinner f-for myself a-again tonight?” You tried, hoping a question would pierce their walls of apathy.

It didn’t.

“A b-bunch of w-worthless d-dicks for parents,” you hissed, ripping a chunk of skin off the side of your thumb.

At that, the laugh track on the sitcom blared.

***

You examined your bruises, sometimes. The ones on your wrists, you thought, were the most interesting to look at, because the veins were hidden by the purpled skin, blood pooled just beneath the surface, an impermanent reminder of all the times one of your parents had gotten angry at you and snapped, grabbing you or pushing you or hitting or any number of other things.

Most of the time, you thought, you hadn’t even done anything. You’d just forgotten to respond immediately, or talked back, or any number of things, when they were in a bad mood. Sometimes they just needed a punching bag that wasn’t each other, you guessed.

You never told anyone anymore, because the last time you did was in middle school. The school had called home even though you’d specifically asked them not to, and you’d been smacked across the face and yelled at for hours on end.

(No one had asked you anything about the red mark on your cheek at school. No one had followed you to the bathrooms where you locked yourself for the whole day to cry. Back then, you still cried over things like that. It was pathetic. You could see why no one had helped you; especially since they all hated you anyway.)

You went to sleep thinking about how just the next day someone had pinned your love letter to the bulletin board, and kids had gathered around it to laugh as your crush had read out the words loud and clear. You couldn’t do anything about it. Everyone had already been laughing at you for hours.

***

_glooooooomy!_

_stop trashing my letters without even reading them! and don’t say you have, because if you did i’d get a reply! god, you’re so rude!_

_ehehe, are you glad for what i did to kamijou-kun? don’t you wish you could’ve seen him squirm? and when i shoved the blade into his_

You reached into your drawer and pulled the lighter out without looking; ease formed by habit.

***

If your life was a work of fiction, you thought one day, waking up in the backyard of an unfamiliar house in an unfamiliar neighbourhood in broad daylight, it would be quite a show. You examined yourself for blood, then the area surrounding you - it was a small garden, flowers blooming everywhere you looked, which felt dissonant with your current situation, to say the least - and you found that she had been careful. There was not a drop of blood to be found. You checked yourself over one more time before standing up and ignoring the pain in your thigh, the straight-edge cut you were so used to by now - the sting that told you no matter what you did, it was futile.

As you started the long walk home, you felt bitter, and hungry, and tired. You went back to the thought - being unreal, fictional. Would that comfort you? - to know your suffering was all for someone else’s entertainment? - not that it wasn’t already, mind you.

“Q-quite a show, a-alright,” you hissed. The sting in your leg intensified with every step, and for the first time in years, you had to hold back tears.


End file.
